


It's not his kid

by TheBraveHobbit



Series: Taut [13]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:44:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBraveHobbit/pseuds/TheBraveHobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Bahorel helps look after Gavroche<br/>Characters: Bahorel and Gavroche<br/>Summary: He's a better babysitter than you'd give him credit for, if you discount the bloody nose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's not his kid

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my sandbox-style Modern!AU: Taut  
> Additional content can be found on my tumblr: elfjolras.tumblr.com

**Gavroche had lost a tooth.**

There was blood all over his face and shirt, and the dash was splattered somewhat messily. His nose had been squished, but it wasn’t broken. Probably.

“Trust me, kid. I know broken noses.” Bahorel said, grimacing as he prodded at the young lad’s face, trying to assess the damage done. The pair of them were seated on the curb, a couple of blocks from the Thenardier house. Eponine’s old tan Buick was smoking some distance away, rammed up onto the sidewalk, a mailbox splayed across the hood, bent double over a gaping indention in the bumper.

 “Your sister is going to kill me.” Bahorel was not otherwise inclined to fright, but felt his blood run cold at the thought of the eldest Thenardier’s rage.

 Gavroche looked up in alarm, spitting as he talked, his mouth swollen around a nastily busted lip. His speech was slurred awkwardly, distorted by his bloodied face. “Mebbe we shouln’ teller.”

 “You think that’ll work? The car looks like shit.” Bahorel laughed incredulously, pulling off his ratty t-shirt to mop at Gav’s face. It wasn’t the cleanest of swabs, but it would do. Gavroche wiggled and squirmed under the ministrations, batting at Bahorel’s hands and saying, “Gerroff! Gerroff!”

 “Hold still, squirt.” Bahorel caught the boy in a headlock, his grip firm but gentle. It was more of a game than a means of subduing the child, and Gavroche played along, elbowing the older boy in the ribs while continuing to struggle.

 “Gerroff!” He said again. Bahorel did not relent. Gav’s nose was still spurting blood, and he pinched it and held the child’s head back.

 “Look up. You know, when I taught you how to hotwire, it was with the unspoken understanding that you would use your powers for good and not evil.”

 “This ain’ ebil. I jus wanted to circle the block.”

 “Your sister is going to kill me.” Bahorel repeated.

“ ‘ow’s ze gonna know ‘less ya teller?”

“Who else do you know can hotwire a car?”

"Montparnasse."

Bahorel laughed. “Eponine would love any excuse to box his ears, wouldn’t ze? But he gets cranky when he gets caught in his own mischief, how do you think he’ll feel about scapegoating for us?"

 Gavroche had no answer to that, and instead took the shirt from Bahorel so he could hold his own nose, getting up from the curb to limp over to the Buick. “ ‘snot s’bad.”

 “Hmm.” Bahorel did not agree, but he couldn’t keep from grinning. Gavroche was a mess of a little boy, but that was probably why they got along. He clapped the kid on the shoulder before pulling his brick of a phone from his back pocket. “I’m gonna call a tow, okay kid? Let’s get this taken care of, then we’ll deal with your sister.”

 

\---

 

**Gavroche’s nose hadn’t really healed yet.** It sat fat and puffy and discolored on his face and the bruise had spread to swell and discolor his left eye, and the kid was still talking around his busted lip. The crown of his front tooth had begun to peek down from his gums, however, and Bahorel had been relieved to discover the lost incisor had been a baby tooth already on its way out.

 “Who the fuck buys six dozen watermelons?”

“Hey, what’ve I told you about saying ‘fuck’?” Bahorel thumped the kid lightly on the back of his head, setting the tangled blonde curls awry. He dropped a plate bearing a sloppily composed PB&J, divided into triangle quarters, at Gavroche’s elbow.

“Shut up Bahorel.  Ain’t nobody around that cares.” Gavroche sulked, bent low over his notebook, sat at of the corner tables in the upper room of the Musain. His feet kicked in rapid agitation, several inches above the floor, and he shot a subversive look to the young men gathered across the room, but they were preoccupied with their own business. Combeferre was speaking animatedly about something or another. Bahorel wasn’t overly concerned; he’d probably heard this speech before.

“Maybe not, but I’m in enough shit with your sister, thanks.” He lifted his hand to his own discolored eye, his most prominent trophy from that particular encounter.

“This is stupid.” Gavroche pushed his notebook away, and Bahorel, seated across from him, pulled the paper to him, looking it over with a crooked expression.

“Word problems, eh? That blows, dude. I don’t miss this shit at all.”

“When th’ hell’m I ever gonna need to divide six dozen watermelons evenly between four people? I don’t even like watermelon.”

“Then pretend it’s pizza.”

“I ain’t sharin my pizza.” This thought seemed to remind him of the snack Bahorel had brought, and he distractedly picked up a triangle of sandwich, dripping jelly across the table without a care.

“Atta kid.” Bahorel laughed and spun the notebook, sliding it back across the table, crossing the drippings of jelly and smearing purple across the back page. “But you can figure this out. It ain’t that hard, and we both know you’re a clever brat. If you want, I’ll check yer answers when yer done.”

Gavroche’s expression lit, suddenly inspired. He adopted a wheedling tone. “Y’know, it’d go faster if you’d help me.”

“By help, do you mean  _‘Bahorel please tell me the answers so I can do something fun like break windows or vandalize the bathroom’_?” He shook his head, hand rising to run through his length of hair that had fallen into his eyes. The bristles above his ear were getting rough again. He needed to tend the undercut.  “As fun as that sounds…No can do, kid.”

“Come ON.” Gavroche pleaded around a mouthful of peanut butter, “I’m _dying_  here.”

“Not a chance. I did my time already. This ain’t my homework.”

Gavroche stuck out his tongue, pressing it against the gap in his teeth distractedly. It was probably still tender. A little belatedly, Bahorel thought that he should probably have used creamy peanut butter, but Gav wasn’t complaining, at least, not about the sandwich.

 

\--

 

Graffiti’s appearance upon the bricked wall in the alley behind Bahorel and Jehan’s apartment was not new. It got tagged fairly regularly, and Bahorel tended to not look twice at it as he walked past to take out the trash.

Today, though, it warranted a bit of study. Someone had come along and done their best to cover up the hateful text that had previously defaced the bricks—he could barely read the word  _“faggots”_  beneath the newest work. The paint was still damp, and it smeared across his finger, leaving a chalky red residue beneath his chipped nail. He picked at it absently as he lifted his chin to look about the alley, pursing his lower lip against his teeth and whistling sharply.

“Kid, ain’t you s’posed to be in school?”

Head cocked defiantly, Gavroche stepped out from behind one of the bins. There was no hat on his head, despite the frigid air, and his ears and his nose were bright pink. So was his jacket. One of Azelma’s hand-me-downs, by the look of it. It had a feminine flair over the waist and a delicate, fraying white trim. It didn’t fit at all; Gav’s tiny frame was swallowed in it and it fell almost to his knees. His hands were jammed in his pockets, and he scowled up at Bahorel.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Who else paints tigers with mowhawks? Besides, I gave you this paint.” He grinned a little, “But I swear you promised to wait to use it ‘till I could take you across town. Yer not supposed to tag your own neighborhood, numskull.”

Gavroche shrugged. “We can get more.”

“True. So, school?”  Bahorel had been known to play hooky more than once in his life…hell, he still ducked out of work on days it suited him to be elsewhere, but he also knew the importance of having  _someone_  to be consistent with this kid. God knew his family certainly wasn’t. Half the time, his parents didn’t even seem to notice he was around, and it was more than Eponine could handle on hir own, no matter what ze said.

“I didn’t feel like goin’.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

Bahorel raised one arm, scratching behind his neck as he thought. “You realize I gotta take you back, yeah?”

Gav’s eyes grew wide. He grit his teeth and glanced away, hands still jammed deep in his jacket pockets. “Don’t.”

“You gotta be in school, kid.”

Gavroche seemed to struggle with himself for a moment. He sighed and looked back up, his face pleading. It was an expression Bahorel was unused to; Gavroche rarely took anything seriously enough to require begging. “I can’t. They sent me home.”

“What for?”

“Fighting.” He pulled his left hand from his pocket. His knuckles were swollen and bloodied, and his fingers were wrapped around a pink slip of paper. He handed it to Bahorel as evidence. Bahorel read it quickly.

“On the bus?”

“I almost pushed him out the emergency exit.” Gavroche grinned somewhat savagely.  Then he shivered. His teeth chattered.  

“Fuck, man.” Bahorel said, scratching at his neck again. He sighed. “Come on, you’re freezing. Let’s go inside and you can tell me about it.”

He pulled Gavroche into his side, gripping the kid by his shoulders and steering him into the apartment. Gavroche didn’t resist, and he leaned into Bahorel’s side as if trying to leech warmth. Bahorel hadn’t planned on being out long, and he wasn’t wearing a coat, but he still was warmer than the chilled gamin.

“Go hang out in the living room. I’ll put on some cocoa.” He instructed, giving Gav a little shove in that direction and kicking the door shut behind him. The apartment wasn’t much warmer than outdoors, since they didn’t often run their heater, but at least there was no wind. “Jehan, babe! You want some cocoa? Gavroche is over.”

“I just got a coffee!” Jehan called back from the room Gavroche had just entered. Though she didn’t yell the next bit, her voice still carried well. “Hey kid, what’s happening? Nice jacket. God, you’re shivering! Come here, wrap up in this.”  

Bahorel didn’t hear Gavroche’s reply. He assumed his girlfriend had bundled the boy up in one of the quilts that tended to pile up in their living room.  While he waited on the water to heat, Bahorel read the pink slip again before folding it up carefully and pocketing it. He already knew Gavroche had no intention of sharing it with the Thenardiers. When the microwave beeped, he made quick work of the hot chocolate, grabbed a bag of marshmallows and tucked it under his arm, and exited the kitchen.

“Did he tell you?” He asked Jehan, handing Gavroche a mug—“Careful, it’s very hot!”

“Tell me what?” Jehan asked, snatching the marshmallow bag and helping herself to a handful before dropping some in Gav’s drink for him. She was still wearing her nightgown, though she’d stolen Bahorel’s bathrobe to wear over it, possibly in the name of decency since Gavroche was over, but more likely because she was in the habit of stealing Bahorel's clothes. Her hair was gathered into a messy bed-head bun at the base of her neck, held into place by a precariously knotted ribbon. The kid was perched on a bean bag and buried under a pile of quilts, his tiny hands barely free enough to claim the steaming mug. Both hands were bruised and bloodied. What a mess. 

He noticed that Jehan had gotten out the first aid kit—well used from Bahorel’s own scraps—but she hadn’t opened it yet, probably intending to let Gavroche enjoy his cocoa before swooping in to tend his hands.

“Our boy’s a brawler. Nearly killed a kid on the bus this morning. He’s got two week’s suspension.”

“…did you really? Is that what happened to your poor hands?”  

Gavroche nodded, nose buried in his mug. Bahorel sat beside Jehan on the couch, and she leaned against him for a second before jumping back a little. “You’re freezing too!” He laughed.

“Sorry, babe.”

“You should be. So what was the fight about?”  She tossed another quilt around the both of them and leaned her chin on Bahorel’s shoulder, her eyes focused on Gavroche.

“Stuff.” Gavroche answered, noncommittally.

“Come on, Gav.” Bahorel let Jehan wheedle him. She had a talent for drawing words from people. “I’m positive I’ve heard every possible reason for getting into a fight.” Bahorel grinned crookedly, fully aware that she was talking about him.

Gavroche sighed, looking down at his feet. There was a tear in the toe of his left sneaker, and his sock peaked out. He stuck his finger through it and fidgeted with the seam for a full minute before speaking. He seemed to be talking to his foot. “Just. People talk. I don’t mind it usually. Call me li’l, call me poor—it’s true, innit? I don’t care.” He smooshed his foot down and removed his finger to force the gap shut, rendering the sneaker temporarily whole. “But it ain’t Eponine’s fault. Or ‘zelma’s. I didn’t like what ‘e was sayin’ bout my sisters. So I shut ‘m up.” He looked up, then back down, sipping at his hot chocolate distractedly. “It was stupid, probably.”

“I don’t think so.” Jehan said. Bahorel glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “I think that’s a perfectly legitimate reason to start a brawl.”

“Thanks.” Gavroche said, visibly relaxing. “Eponine’s gonna kill me though.”

“I’ll talk with hir.” Bahorel promised.

“Maybe you shouldn’t tell hir that I did so great cuz you two’ve been teaching me to box.”

“…yeah, I think I’ll leave that bit out.” Bahorel agreed.


End file.
